


The Mother

by PastelLimes



Category: Here Be Monsters! - Alan Snow, The Boxtrolls (2014)
Genre: (though it's not really gone into), Character Death, Egg's mom, F/M, Grief, Headcanon, Herbert is sad, How do I tag?, Hurt/Comfort, I literally just mashed Boxtrolls and HMB! together and hoped for the best don't hate me, Kinda, Mourning, OuchTM, Pre-Canon, Romantic Relationship, Takes Place After Said Character Dies, This is entirely based on headcanons and a personal theory of mine, maternal death, this sucks i'm sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-21
Updated: 2017-08-21
Packaged: 2018-12-18 06:46:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11868852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PastelLimes/pseuds/PastelLimes
Summary: "Herbert could only stare outside the window, distraught and weak, holding his son, devoid of his mother."------An insight to Egg's mother, based on headcanons.





	The Mother

**Author's Note:**

> This was written at 1:00 am okay. So this is all headcanon save for the characters existing and Herbert being Egg's father. I have the belief that Marjorie (from Here Be Monsters!, the book that inspired Boxtrolls) is Egg's mother but died of some type of Hypertensive Disease ((of pregnancy)) (preeclampsia/eclampsia/gestational hypertension/chronic hypertension). 
> 
> Aside from sad birth stuff, enjoy the read!!

Evening light filtered through the two windows of the bedroom. Arranges of oranges and yellows streamed into the room, highlighting and casting ominous shadows that grew with every moment.

Save for the clicking of the grandfather clock, all was silent as Herbert sat at the bedside, a tired expression trained on the woman who laid in bed, pallid with death and silent with loss. The inventors hand latched with the woman’s, his thumb grazing over the white top of her hand, still veins creating bumps and grooves for his thumb to feel. Her hand was cold, icy against his warmth of his own, the contrast shocking him back to the fact that she was gone.

Herbert’s lips contorted into a sad smile, brows furrowing together. His other hand lifted from his lap to rest by her face, knuckles brushing her cheek in a moment of bittersweet sorrow.

“My darling Marjorie.” he mused as his hand retreated from her cheek, sweeping his fingers through her dark, messy curls. He admired the gleam of the setting sun against her complexion for a minute.

After a moment of painful silence, Herbert flinched as the bedroom door clicked open, followed by metal hinges squealing like a pig from use.

‘ _Marjorie could fix that…_ ’ Herbert thought to himself as whoever entered the room stood at his side, giving off the same mournful vibe and feeling. The room’s air thickened.

“The funeral home is here.” Willbury’s voice, smooth and laced with grief, sliced through the weighted quiet. The once-lawyer set his hand on Herbert’s shoulder, a simple and reassuring gesture, stuffed with good intention and friendly aid.

“To take her away,” Herbert replied, his voice died away, slow, lost.

Willbury sighed, appointing his gaze away from the stillness of Marjorie’s body.

“Yes. And we must let them.” Willbury told him, voice quavering as his gaze finally fixated on that of his friend. It was odd to see Marjorie so still, frigid, lacking all life she had just hours ago. As he looked at her, Willbury couldn’t imagine how he’d explain this to her friends and family, her brother and Arthur.

Tension made itself comfortable like dust between the two men. As Herbert’s index fingers slid over the ring on Marjorie’s left hand, the older man behind him spoke up, keeping his voice low in respect.

“Come now.” Willbury stepped towards the door. He turned when no response followed his request and his heart sank into a pit. Herbert remained seated, drained features deepening into the decreasing daylight, shoulders sagging with an invisible weight, eyes haunted by something deeper, heavier. Willbury’s lips formed a tight line.

“Just…” Herbert paused, growing smaller. “Give us a moment longer.”

Herbert’s whispered wish was granted as Willbury left, closing the door with a faint thud.

Taking Marjorie’s hand tighter in his own, Herbert locked up. He examined her face, picking out the details he hadn’t noticed when she first went stiff. All the sweat from her labor was gone. The flush of oncoming motherhood had drained into a still wash of white. For a moment, Herbert could hear her laughter, hear her chattering of mechanics and how excited she was to become a mother. Black curls that met at a widows peak still framed her face. Her ashen lips were loosely parted, eyes closed, brows lifted as though caught in peaceful sleep. Even in death, she radiated beauty.

In the privacy of the room, Herbert whispered, leaning in as his chest tightened, throat constricting.

“I will look after him, Marjorie. I promise. No, I swear,” Herbert chuckled softly, “I swear on my jelly addiction.” he brushed strands of hair off her shoulder. Herbert’s eyes burned with tears, but a smile proceeded to cross his face.

Adjusting the pale baby blue sheets to stop at Marjorie’s lower sternum, Herbert stood.

“I will look after all of them, so don’t you worry, darling.”

When standing, Herbert’s fingertips barely reached her hand, the connection fluttering in and out of completion. The sunset stretched across the room, an hour left in its efforts. Color filled her face, darkening the shadows on her right, brightening her, bringing her back to life on her left. Her beauty strengthened in Herbert’s eyes. A moment passed outside the room, but an eternity pressed on inside.

“Rest easy, my dear.” Bending at the waist, Hebert steadied himself by bracing his palms against the mattress. Steady, the inventor placed a kiss gingerly upon Marjorie’s lips. For the split second, Herbert shivered as her ice seeped into his skin. As he drew away, Herbert wiped away tears that threatened to fall. Before his heart could break again, Herbert returned the chair to his desk by the window. Peering at him over and behind chimneys, slanted roofs and billows of smoke was the sun. He shut his eyes, breathing deep.

Herbert rounded on his heels and made his way to the door, sluggish and weighed. He stopped one last time at the bedside, gazing down. For a moment, false hope led him to believe her chest rose and flattened with breath. But all was still as Herbert closed the door behind him, closing Marjorie inside her battlefield where she lost to death.

Herbert stood in the hallway, unrolling his sleeves absentmindedly, listening to Willbury and who he assumed was the funeral home speak, hushed. He turned his attention to the room across from the one Marjorie resided in, the door partially cracked. With a distant look, Herbert tentatively opened the door. The gas lamps in the room illuminated the space with a bright palette of white and gold. Plain in appearance, the room had a singular, but wide window across from the door, framed by a bookshelf filled with books, blankets, and infant-necessities, and a rocking chair, a red striped blanket draped over the back, a family heirloom from Marjorie’s family. Portraits hung over the vanity, pictures of Marjorie’s family from Ratbridge, islands and Herbert’s family. On the vanity rest a mirror and trinkets, a music box and a record player. Herbert turned to face the crib that was on the other side of the room. A mobile of sea monsters, cabbages and pirates swirled above, old and beaten. Herbert stood by the crib and his heart wept.

His son gazed up at him, wide brown eyes with blue and gray centers gleamed with innocence. He smiled, babbling a string of nonsense. Herbert’s brows knit together yet he grinned as he lifted his son from the crib, wrapping the blanket around the child, supporting him with his arm and palm. The child made himself comfortable on Herbert’s chest, a heartbeat as his lullaby.

Breathing slow, Herbert held his son in content. As men took his wife from her bed and positioned her on a stretcher, covered in a white cloth, Herbert kissed his son’s head, sweet and soft, rocking back and forth, foot to foot.

When all fell silent, Herbert carried his son across the hall, now cast in a thick shadow, and into the now empty room, absent was the day’s victim. The bed had been freshly made, new sheets and all. From the vanity, the tea tray was removed. No longer did the washbowl with a cloth rest on the bedside table. All the bloody rags and towels had been disposed of.

Perfumes of herbs wafted through the air.

Herbert smiled down at his son, whose small hands had discovered his father’s tie, loose and open for his taking.

The slam of a door brought Herbert to the window that overlooked the inclining cobblestone street. Some neighbors stood in front of their stone homes with wooden doors, clutching their aprons or crossing themselves. Within the ‘ambulance’ before him was his Marjorie. As the funeral company pulled away, Herbert solemnly gazed out the window, holding all he had left of Marjorie close to him, afraid that if he were to let go, he’d lose her forever, but if he held too tight, the fragile being in his arms would break like egg shells and wither to dust.

Herbert could only stare outside the window, distraught and weak, holding his son, devoid of his mother.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Sorry this kinda sucks, once again, written at one am in the dark with only small revisions in the morning. 
> 
> ~~PastelLimes


End file.
